It was no one he knew. Out in this lonely corner of the island there were few families, and with the sons of the other fishermen Brude's son had never felt in tune. And oddly enough his parents had never encouraged him to mix with them, even as a child. Now, at ten years old, well grown and full of a wiry strength, he had helped his father with the man's jobs already for several years. It was a long time since, on his rare days off, he had troubled with children's ploys. Not that, for such as he, birds'-nesting was a child's game; still, each spring, he made his way down these very cliffs to collect the freshly laid eggs for food. And later he and his father, armed with nets, would come to catch the young ones for Sula to skin and dry against the winter's hardships.
So he knew the ways down the cliff well enough. He also knew how dangerous they were, and the thought of being burdened with someone clumsy enough to strand himself, and probably by now thoroughly scared, was not pleasant.
The boy had seen him. His face was upturned, and he waved and called again.
Mordred made a face, then cupped his hands to his mouth. "What is it? Can't you get back?"
A vivid pantomime from below. It seemed unlikely that the climber could hear what was said, but the question was obvious, and so, too, was his answer. He had hurt his leg, otherwise — and somehow his gestures conveyed this clearly — he would not have dreamed of calling for help.
This bravado had little or no effect on the boy at the head of the cliff. With a shrug that indicated more boredom than anything else, the fisherman's son began the climb down.
It was difficult, and in two or three places dangerous, so Mordred went slowly, taking his time.
At length he landed on the ledge beside the climber.
The boys studied one another. The fisherman's son saw a boy of much his own age, with a shock of bright red-gold hair and hazel-green eyes. His complexion was clear and ruddy, his teeth good. And though his clothes were torn and stained with the dirt of the cliff, they were well made of good cloth, and brightly dyed in what looked like expensive colours. On one wrist he wore a copper bracelet no brighter than his hair. He sat with one leg over the other, gripping the hurt ankle tightly in both hands. He was obviously in pain, but when Mordred, with the working man's contempt for his idle betters, looked for signs of tears, he saw none.
"You've hurt your ankle?"
"Twisted it. I slipped."
"Is it broken?"
"I don't think so, just sprained. It hurts if I try to stand on it. I must say I'm glad to see you! I seem to have been here for ages. I didn't think anyone would be near enough to hear me, specially through all that noise."
"I didn't hear you. I saw the gulls."
"Well, thank the gods for that. You're a pretty good climber, aren't you?"
"I know these cliffs. I live near here. All right, we'll have to try it. Get up and let's see how you manage. Can't you put that foot down at all?"
The red-haired boy hesitated, looking faintly surprised, as if the other's tone was strange to him. But all he said was: "I can try. I did try before, and it made me feel sick. I don't think — some of those places were pretty bad, weren't they? Hadn't you better go and get help? Tell them to bring a rope."
"There's no one within miles." Mordred spoke impatiently. "My father's away with the boat. There's only Mother, and she'd be no use. I can get a rope, though. I've got one up at the peats. We'll manage all right with that."
"Fine." There was some attempt at a gay smile. "I'll wait for you, don't fret! But don't be too long, will you? They'll be worried at home."
At Brude's cottage, thought Mordred, his absence would never have been noticed. Boys such as he would have to break a leg and be away for a working day before anyone would start to trouble. No, that was not quite fair. Brude and Sula sometimes were as anxious over him as fowls with a single chicken. He had never seen why; he had ailed nothing in all his life.
As he turned to go he caught sight of a small lidded basket on the ledge beside the other boy. "I'll take that basket up now. Save trouble later."
"No, thanks. I'd sooner bring it up myself. It'll be all right, it hooks on to my belt."
So, maybe he had found some eggs, thought Mordred, then forgot all about it as he turned himself back to the cliff climb.
Beside the peat cuttings was the crude sled of driftwood that was used to drag the cut sods down to the stack beside the cottage. Fastened to the sled was a length of reasonably good rope. Mordred slipped this from its rings as quickly as he could, then ran back to the cliff, and once again made the slow climb down.
The injured boy looked composed and cheerful. He caught the rope's end and, with Mordred's help, made it fast to his belt. This was a good one, strongly made of polished leather, with what looked like silver studs and buckle. The basket was already clipped there.
Then began the struggle to the top. This took a very long time, with frequent pauses for rest, or for working out how best the injured boy might be helped up each section of the climb. He was obviously in pain, but made no complaint, and obeyed Mordred's sometimes peremptory instructions without hesitation or any show of fear. Sometimes Mordred would climb ahead and make the rope fast where he could, then descend to help the other boy with the support of arm or shoulder. In places they crawled, or edged along, belly to rock, while all the time the seabirds screamed and wheeled, the wind of their wings stirring the grasses on the very cliff, and their cries echoed and re-echoed to and fro over the deeper thud and wash of the waves.
At last it was over. The two boys reached the top safely, and pulled themselves over the last few feet onto the heather. They sat there, panting and sweating, and eyeing one another, this time with satisfaction and mutual respect.
"You have my thanks." The red-haired boy spoke with a kind of formality that gave the words a weight of genuine seriousness. "And I'm sorry to have given you that trouble. Once down that cliff would be enough for anyone, but you were up and down it as spry as a goat."
"I'm used to it. We take eggs in the spring, and then the young birds later. But it's a bad bit of rock. It looks so easy, with the stone weathered into slabs like that, but it's not safe, not safe at all."
"You don't need to tell me now. That was what happened. It looked like a safe step, but it broke. I was lucky to get off with just a sprained ankle. And lucky that you were there, too. I hadn't seen anyone all day. You said you lived near here?"
"Yes. In a bay about half a mile over yonder. Seals' Bay, it's called. My father's a fisherman."
"What's your name?"
"Mordred. What's yours?"
That faint look of surprise again, as if Mordred should have known. "Gawain."
It obviously meant nothing to the fisherman's son. He touched the basket which Gawain had set on the grass between them. From it came curious hissing sounds. "What's in there? I thought it couldn't be eggs."
"A couple of young peregrines. Didn't you see the falcon? I was half afraid she'd come and knock me off the ledge, but she contented herself with screaming. I left two others, anyway." He grinned. "Of course I got the best ones."
Mordred was startled. "Peregrines? But that's not allowed! Only for the palace people, that is. You'll be in real trouble if anyone sees them. And how on earth did you get near the nest? I know where it is, it's under that overhang with the yellow flowers on, but that's another fifteen feet lower than the ledge where you were."
"It's easy enough, but a bit tricky. Look." Gawain opened the basket a little way. In it Mordred could see the two young birds, fully fledged but still obviously juveniles. They hissed and bounced in their prison, floundering, with their claws fast in a tangle of thread.